


Ghost in the Subtext

by DestielsDestiny



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mycroft, BAMF Sherlock, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Kidnapping, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Pre-Slash, Resistance, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4929082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn’t know who Mycroft is exactly, just that he must have been something special, if he can still make Sherlock Holmes cry.</p><p>Or, in a universe where Mycroft was kidnapped when Sherlock was seven and he was fourteen, and never seen again, there is no big brother to protect Sherlock from the evils of the world, no mysterious man to kidnap John Watson. In a world that is much darker for the lack of his big brother, one lonely and stubborn little boy refuses to give up hope, even if it takes a lifetime, he’ll bring his brother home. And so he does. </p><p>Also known as the one where without Mycroft Holmes, aliens literally take over the planet. Sorta. Well, they try bless their hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost in the Subtext

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I own nothing. Not sure how long with fic will be, but there will be at least several more chapters.

Bang! 

John’s head jerks up, his eyes snapping open in instant wakefulness, the kind that’s always been the envy of his unit. 

Bang! The sound joins an echo around the broad cavern they staked a claim on the night before, resembling something that isn’t quite a gunshot, and isn’t quite a blaster discharge. 

John can’t place it, which frightens him, because apart from being the only fully trained medic in a hundred miles of sector zoning, he’s also the district’s undisputed weapons expert. And that’s saying a lot more than not saying much. 

Bang! Bang, Bang, Bang!. 

The sound is getting closer. John’s unit is scrambling for their ammo, pulling weapons from their makeshift use as pillows or crutches, Anderson fumbling his rifle so badly John silently tallies the miracle of yet another instance where he somehow doesn’t kill any of them with his weapon, including himself, up to thirteen. They only gave him a weapon in the first place four days ago. After they lost Stamford. 

John didn’t reach the rank of Major by standing on the sidelines, and there is nothing remotely fumbling about his smooth flip off of his handgun’s safety as he strides sharply towards the mouth of their cavern, trusting his team far enough to follow his point. 

Bang! Rock shards fly in all directions less than a foot above Sally’s head, causing the rather tired looking woman to flinch violently. She’s still rather green, for all her protests. 

John sights calmly towards the trees, stepping boldly away from the cover of the cavern wall. 

Phase blasts don’t chip rock, they scorch it. Which means, whoever this is, it isn’t Claimers. It’s human. 

John’s former unit called him Kamikaze Watson. He tries not to think about what happened to them. Some days, the higher ups are prepared to swear bullets deflect off John Watson’s skin. The proof that this isn’t true earned him a promotion. Humanity is funny like that. 

Ping! The bullet passes less than an inch from John’s cheek. That wasn’t deliberate. 

John pivots, firing rapidly as he advances towards the tree line. Cries of pain and faint slumping sounds greet every shot he fires, three in each direction, rapid and cold and cruel. 

John pauses for a moment to reload smoothly, glancing around the now silent clearing. There’s something, this is too clumsy, even for Chumps. Something’s wrong. 

The world destabilizes faster than anything John’s ever felt. He doesn’t even get a chance to fully process Sally’s yell of alarm before the earth abruptly swallows all sound. Chumps with Terra-Quakers. Perfect. Great going Watson, he thinks, what a stupid way to die. 

Earth chokes his vision, his voice, his throat. John gave up on a higher power the day Harry died from something other than alcohol poisoning, but the thought slips out unbidden anyway, becoming his rather inauspicious last whispered words, “Please God let me live.”

\--

Thud! A ripping sound fills John’s ears, as the world turns abruptly from brown-grey to blue-white, something warm and rough he vaguely identifies as a hand gripping his bad arm hard enough to make his shoulder scream. 

John’s been in odd situations before, but hanging upside down at the bottom of a Quaker shoot, alive rather than shredded, held tenaciously in place by a curly mop of hair who appears to be wearing a scarf of all things, is definitely a first. 

“Sorry, not God I’m afraid. I’m something much better.” Fuck, the guy’s as crazy as he looks. Figures. Who wears blue scarves into claimer territory. Or anywhere these days for that matter. Where’d he even get the thread. 

The world retilts, and grey eyes abruptly capture John’s, the edges of something large and black blurring their fall into a batman-esque tumble which ends with John on top of six feet of too thin muscle and blue scarf. And a chuckle that is way, way too deep and way, way too out of place for being stuck in the middle of nowhere with a possible Chump. 

And his gun is apparently now buried under roughly a cubic ton of dirt and gravel. Perfect. 

And that’s how John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
